


still sane

by theowlinsomniac



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Gen, alex murphy mentioned, alie & boyfriend referenced, mother murphy also mentioned, sad / loneliness, this is so bad but i hope u like it!!, tw suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-14
Updated: 2016-01-14
Packaged: 2018-05-13 20:57:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5716849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theowlinsomniac/pseuds/theowlinsomniac
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He let the hard vines grow inside his heart, take root in his veins and curl around his spine until his insides were just like his outsides: spiny, dirty, trapped.</p>
            </blockquote>





	still sane

**Author's Note:**

  * For [blueparacosm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueparacosm/gifts).



The couch is worn. The maroon leather has grooves that fit his head, chest, and thighs. It knows him well, knows the shape of his body, the warmth of his skin. 

(he's closer to this couch than he's ever been with anyone on this God forsaken planet) 

He stopped shaving after seven weeks. Stopped caring about how he looked or smelled or felt a few days later. There was no point when he was never going to see the outside world again, no point when he would never hear another person's voice again, never feel the touch of the sun on his face. 

So he let his hair grow out. Let his body grow dusty and cold like the rooms in which he dwelled. He let the hard vines grow inside his heart, take root in his veins and curl around his spine until his insides were just like his outsides: spiny, dirty, trapped. He lets it all go; he tries to forget. 

He plays the videos because he likes the sound of the girl's voice, the sight of two people grasping each other like nothing else mattered, living off of each other's every breath. The man pays close attention to his lover's face, to her feelings. He holds her when she's scared. (Murphy wraps his arms tighter around himself when it storms outside, pretending his hands are someone else's, clutching the front of his shirt tightly, keeping him safe and secure.) 

The documents run out after a while, the camera slowly dying. Once he runs out of things to watch, he starts re-watching them, memorizing their every word. Watching their love deteriorate, watching the girl become something other than herself. He sees himself in her. A violent heart, a cloudy mind, and hungry eyes. 

His knuckles get bloody when he pounds on the doors that seem to be locked for good. He throws heavy vases, pounds with furniture legs, throws his shoulder against the hard metal, all in an attempt to free himself. Nothing works, so he slips back into his place (on the floor, on the bare mattress, on the dusty stone countertops) and lets the tears roll down his face.

He used to make fun of men who cried. They're not even men at all. 

So he pretends he's a child, that Alex is coming to save him soon. He just has to wait. 

 _But he's tired of waiting_. He pushes the little red button on the camera, hears it chime, and starts to talk. His throat feels like sandpaper, his tongue heavy and rough in his mouth. He hasn't spoken in weeks, hasn't left the prison of his own mind since long before he arrived. (It's comfortable there in such a personal place. It's comfortable even if his thoughts are turning dark and the gun on the coffee table is calling his name) 

He talks for hours. He talks about the drop ship, about his father, his mother, how he got into the Skybox, how he felt when his feet touched the Earth for the first time. He cries, hard, into the eye of the black metal box that captures his every syllable, his every breath. It gives no sympathy (he could use some after three months of solitude) and no consolation. He didn't expect it to, didn't expect much from it, but he continues, continues until he knows for sure that when someone opens these files he'll be long dead. 

Perhaps the man in the videos knew that too. 

Perhaps he's more of a coward than he originally thought. 

Murphy has never been emotional, but after such solitude, he doesn't think he'll ever feel anything ever again. 

( _The couch is worn_. So is the trigger on the revolver. The brilliant silver is now a dull grey from being rubbed so often. The cold metal is no longer stimulating, no longer interesting. The eye of the barrel is no longer taunting. Even the gun doesn't know him anymore, doesn't want him.)

He wanders around the tower. He knows every corner, ever edge, every square foot of wall. His hands touches the panel where he knows a door should be. His fingers brush over the wall paper, ghost over the platinum colors that shimmer even in the darkness. (That's all he knows now: darkness.) He pushes his palm against it, like he's done almost every morning for the past 86 days. 

He can hear a bird singing outside. 

(when he finally pulled the trigger a few days earlier, there were no bullets.)

He closes his eyes, listening closely (to the song of the bird, to the creaking of the furniture, to the whistle of air blowing through the dozens of empty bottles, to the sound of his own breathing). 

He pushes his weight against the door, and it opens with a whoosh that sounds almost like a human gasp. Murphy's hands shake, his eyes narrowing in agony. The light is blinding and the sound of a machine is whirring in his ear. His hand draws up to shield his face as he watches the sky. He steps out into the forest on shaking knees and bare, dirty feet. It's warm like an embrace. 

He breathes. 

He throws the camera into the lake, and begins his journey. 


End file.
